


close your eyes and be still

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Body Worship, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Light Porn, M/M, Old Married Couple, happy bday newt!!, tenderness.........., uprising don't interact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 20:36:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17474561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: He thinks he’s been subtle in his pseudo-midlife-crisis, but of course, he hasn’t. Hermann knows him.





	close your eyes and be still

**Author's Note:**

> love these boys...
> 
> this was originally written for bsafemydeers over on tumblr per request but i thought it was appropriate for newt's birthday so i edited it up a little and am posting it today!!! :) title from a beach boys song that i maybe have had on repeat all morning because it...soothes me

Newt doesn’t have as many bad days anymore, not since the weight of literal world-saving has been lifted from his shoulders; he has a regular sleep schedule, a regular eating schedule that features things other than coffee and pre-packaged snack food, he gets regular sunlight, he even exercises, sometimes, when he and Hermann take walks around the campus of their shiny new tenured university positions or through the city streets on cool evenings. He has a husband he loves and who loves him in return. All in all, vast improvements for his mental health.

Unfortunately, being loved and generally content with how his life panned out can’t solve _everything_ , and Newt still gets self-conscious about shit. (He’s always tried his hardest to put out a certain kind of image, you know, with the tattoos, and the bracelets, and the glasses. He _always_ gets self-conscious about shit.) His greying temples, for one. How his old skinny jeans don’t fit as well as they used to when he was in his thirties, and certainly not as well as they did when he was in his twenties. The wrinkles he’s finding more and more of every day at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Hermann’s not immune to time, either; he walks a little slower, leans a little more heavily on his cane, falls asleep faster, has wrinkles and grey hairs of his own, but he does it a lot more... _gracefully_. (Newt should not be surprised. He’s seen photographs of Hermann’s father, the near-splitting image of Hermann, who regained a full head of hair, a trim waistline, and a sort of domineering, regal aura well into his fifties. Newt’s dad was bald by forty-three. Genetics!)

It’s self-consciousness that hits Newt the hardest, hyperawareness that he’s not as young and attractive and _cool_ as he used to be, that makes him prod at his flabby arms and stretch marks and worry over what his tattoos will look like in another decade in the mirror and lay awake considering how the branch of research he devoted a _good chunk_ of his life to is basically inconsequential at this point once every few weeks.

He thinks he’s been subtle in his pseudo-midlife-crisis, but of course, he hasn’t. Hermann _knows_ him.

Hermann doesn’t bring it up for a while, though—he lets Newt wallow in his own self-loathing misery for a bit before, finally, one night, right before Newt’s birthday (late forties, getting up there) as they undress for bed and Newt is digging through their shared bureau for sweatpants, he wraps his arms around Newt from behind, handle of his cane pressing against Newt's stomach. “What’s wrong, my love?” he says, and he presses a single kiss to Newt’s shoulder. “You’ve been unlike yourself lately.”

“Nothing,” Newt says. He draws Hermann’s left hand to his lips and kisses his wedding ring, like he usually does when he wants to distract Hermann. “Stressed.”

“What could you possibly be stressed about?” Hermann says, and Newt supposes he has a point. They haven’t _got_ much to be stressed about these days; the most difficult choice they’ve had to make recently is how to reupholster their living room loveseat after Newt spilled an entire bottle of red wine over it. Hermann wasn’t even _mad_ at him about it. He didn’t yell, or shout, or say _Newton, you idiot, Newton, you’re so bloody careless_ , or storm out of the apartment, or even glower, just sighed and patted Newt’s knee with a good-natured _what_ will _I do with you, darling_ as Newt scrambled to grab a towel and clean it up.

They don’t fight anymore, like they used to during the war some decade ago, don’t have screaming matches, don’t hurl insults and venomous barbs and, sometimes, chalk and intestines back and forth over the yellow line, and it’s not that Newt misses Hermann at his throat, it’s just…

He kisses over Hermann’s ring again and rubs his thumb against his wrist. “Hermann, are you...bored?” He can take his pick of what: paying rent, teaching instead of fighting the clock at the end of the world, playing at happy domesticity with Newt, _Newt_.

Hermann stiffens. “Are you?”

“No,” Newt says. “No, of course not. It’s not—” Hermann starts to pull his hand away. Newt holds fast. “Sometimes I just worry you’ll get bored of me, dude.” His face heats up with the admission. Stupid Newt, stupid nerves, stupid inadequacy and sabotaging everything for himself, stupid inability to let himself be _happy._

“Oh, Newton,” Hermann sighs.

“I’m sorry,” Newt says, “I’m sorry, it’s dumb, it’s—” He does let Hermann go this time, but Hermann merely carefully balances himself on his cane and tugs, very gently, on the back of Newt’s shirt.

“Will you come to bed?” he says. Newt turns. Hermann is smiling at him a little sadly.

Newt does come to bed, to their warm queen-sized mattress that Hermann keeps piled up with pillows and knitted blankets, and Hermann lowers himself atop Newt when Newt’s made himself comfortable and instantly works the t-shirt off over Newt’s head. Newt blushes, though he’s not really sure why. It’s _Hermann_ , for fuck’s sake. His husband. They have sex all the time. “I’m not bored of you,” Hermann murmurs, curling up on his side against Newt—weight on his good leg—and splaying his fingers across Newt’s pudgy stomach. “I could never be bored of you.”

(They used to fight, but they used to make fierce love, too: shouting and snarling and tearing at each other’s clothes, Hermann’s back pressed to the cold metal of the lab floor, nails streaking angry red lines down Newt’s back as Newt rode him, or as Newt fucked him. They make tender love, now: Hermann with his compliments and whispers and _I love you_ s and _my sweet husband_ and kisses to the inside of Newt’s wrist. Does Hermann miss fucking on the lab floor?)

Newt’s vision blurs wet. Hermann notices—Hermann notices everything—and nudges Newt’s glasses up and kisses each eyelid. “Darling,” he says, and Newt gives a watery laugh. “Newton. Darling.”

“God,” Newt says, “I’m being such a _baby_ right now. I’m sorry, dude—”

Hermann kisses him sweetly. “I love you,” he says, “more than you can possibly conceive.”

Newt _can_ conceive it (he’s been in Hermann’s head), but he pushes back anyway. Maybe just to hear Hermann confirm it. “But I’m old,” Newt says. “And—” he slaps his stomach. Not the spry young Newt Geiszler Hermann married.

“And _handsome_ ,” Hermann says. “And gorgeous.” He rubs at Newt’s chest and kisses his neck. “And dreadfully intelligent, and thoughtful, and—”

“Jeez,” Newt mumbles.

“—talented, and charming—” Hermann kisses his neck again, and slides his lips along Newt’s throat, nipping at the skin once, and reaches up to tug Newt’s glasses off and toss them carelessly to the bedside table. His lips slide down to Newt’s chest, over one of his pecs, and he bites gently at the skin. “All of you is gorgeous.”

“Uh-huh?” Newt says, and blinks at the hazy, blurry shape of Hermann. He pets at Hermann’s hair—damp with sweat, probably curling now, too. Probably really cute.

“Mm,” Hermann says. He traces little circles across Newt’s forearms as he slips lower and lower, mouthing over one nipple, then the other, kissing down his pudge, the trail of dark hair to his pelvis, and Newt lets his eyes drift shut. He feels Hermann reach over to the side table, hears the little _pop_ of their bottle of lube, and then Hermann is aligning their bodies again and creeping a big, slick hand down his sweatpants and curling it around Newt’s dick. Newt’d been half-hard before (he’s always half-hard when Hermann feels amorous and handsy), but now he twitches to life fully at the touch.

“Oh,” Newt gasps, “oh, Hermann—”

“I married you for a reason,” Hermann breathes, moving his hand in slow, steady strokes over Newt, “and I fully intend to _stay_ married to you.”

“Hermann,” Newt says again, rocking up into Hermann’s grasp; he loves how heavy Hermann is over him, how warm, how solid (how safe and loved Newt feels with him). Hermann kisses his throat again and scrapes his teeth just behind Newt’s ear, traces his tongue along Newt’s earlobe, breathes out in hot little puffs over Newt’s skin. Newt’s close, already, embarrassingly, just from a little handjob. He’s emotional, so sue him. “Hermann, Hermann—”

“Mm,” Hermann moans, and Newt hears a little click as he undoes his pants, and then Hermann’s dick is nudging up alongside Newt’s own. Hermann strokes them off together, kissing and sucking at Newt’s skin, rocking their bodies together gently.

“Keep talking,” Newt begs, clinging fast to Hermann’s waist (he’s sweating hard, it’s warm in their room and it’s only getting warmer) “keep—”

“I loved you from the very beginning,” Hermann says, “from your very first letter, from—” He swears under his breath, and his hips stutter for a moment. It’s nothing Newt doesn’t know, nothing Newt didn’t see in the drift, nothing Hermann didn’t confess to him as they held each other and stared at each other’s red-rimmed irises and made love mere hours after the world didn’t end. But it’s nice to hear it now. “You make me so happy.”

Newt kisses Hermann fiercely, smothering his groan as he spills over Hermann’s hand, and Hermann rocks through lube and Newt’s jizz a few more times before he comes, too. (They probably ruined his dorky tweed pants. Hermann’s fault for not taking them off all the way or putting on pajamas when Newt did.) “Newton,” Hermann breathes over and over as their heart rates steady, kissing his face, rubbing the tips of their noses together, “sweet man. Newton.”

Newt feels good, and fuzzy, and happy. Hermann likes the grey temples, the out-of-shape body, the domesticity, the lovemaking in bed, and Newt likes them too, never _didn’t_ like them. He just...needs the reassurance, sometimes. (He’s got a husband who loves him, a world that’s saved, a world that he _helped_ save, and they have awesome, amazing sex.) “Take these off,” he orders, tugging at the end of Hermann’s button-down and a belt-loop.

“Must I?” Hermann mumbles, and cards his fingers through Newt’s hair. If Newt doesn’t get him naked now, Hermann will bitch about his poor wrinkled shirt for all of tomorrow morning, and Newt cracks a little smile at the thought. Hermann’s ridiculous.

“Off,” Newt says, and pulls at Hermann’s shirt until Hermann sighs and strips down to his little briefs, tossing his clothing to the carpet with Newt’s t-shirt. Newt snuggles against him happily. “Fucking love being married to you,” he says, and Hermann snorts.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter is hermanngaylieb, tumblr is hermannsthumb like usual! i sometimes (usually) post a lot of ficlets over on tumblr too if you want more content from me or want to send in a prompt


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